Broken
by RenShep
Summary: Nathaniel Howe, bent on revenge, slips into the Warden Commander's room in order to rectify the perceived wrong against his father. Angry, hate-fueled, desperate sex occurs between two damaged people. Angsty, smutty, full of emotion.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N : Warning for Dub-Con (but only kind of), a bloody kiss (or two), and a massive amount of self-indulgent angst. Seriously, though, the angst is so overblown it's ridiculous.**

Elissa Cousland was tired. She was tired of running and tired of fighting and tired of the wrenching sadness which had settled over her soul. The intruder faced her, shoulders bowed, face half hidden in shadow. He'd come to kill her, she knew, but she did not think he would make her death quick. No, he wanted to hurt her. His savage visage, the cold glint of his eyes and curl of his lip, the way his body seemed posed to spring into movement, it sent a shiver of... _something_ through her.

_This,_ she thought, _is a dangerous man._

Though she did not fear death, she feared him, or more accurately, her reaction to him.

"You still want to kill me Howe?" She faced him fully and nodded towards her weapon rack. "Take one of my blades and slit my throat. I won't try to stop you. Make it quick or make it painful, I could care less. But for the love of the Maker just do it and be done with it."

When he made no move she strode over to the rack and removed her favorite dagger. She'd picked it off some corpse in Redcliff and had carried it with her for over two years now. She handed it to him hilt first and he hesitantly accepted the weapon. His brow was deeply creased and he was watching her warily, but made no move towards her.

"Are you waiting for a confession? I'll gladly give you one. I killed Rendon Howe. I stormed his home, _your_ home, and slew anything which stood in my path so I could cut him down. When I found him it was quick and clean _only_ because I didn't have time to make it linger. Had I the time I promise you I would have made that sick bastard suffer." She felt her mouth pull into a sneer, "I have many regrets, more than I ever imagined possible, but killing your father will _never_ be one of them."

She watched the angry flush bloom across his pale face, watched his flint grey eyes harden further beneath his lowered brows. His hand tightened around the hilt of the weapon she'd forced in his hand and his lips pulled back in a snarl. She felt another shiver race down her spine.

He reminded her of a great cat, much like she had seen once as a child when visiting Denerim for a young Cailan's name day feast. A menagerie had been set up, filled with wondrous creatures from around Thedas of all shapes in sizes. She had been fascinated by one in particular. The beast had come from Seheron, she had been told, a massive predator, dark and sleek and dangerously beautiful.

Eyes locked with his she raised her chin to expose the line of her neck. Daring him. When he still didn't move she pressed, taunting, "Or would you prefer that I turn so you can stab me in the back and prove yourself to be your father's son?"

With growl he leapt, gripping her by the neck with his empty hand and slamming her against the wall hard enough to cause her to see stars. After a bare flicker of pain her face returned to its impassive state, her hands still at her sides. She forced herself to stay relaxed as he began to squeeze, but even she couldn't prevent her strangled gasp when the room began turning black.

She fell to the floor in a heap, head down, drawing a wheezing breath through her bruised throat.

He stood above her and demanded, "Why!?"

She looked up at him where she lay sprawled, breathing raggedly; her voice was rough when she spoke, which served to enhance the raw emotion there, "Perhaps it will be the end of it."

"The end of what?" He snarled, pacing back and forth, further reminding her of that beautiful caged animal.

"For nearly three years, since that night your father sent his men to slaughter my family," she spat, "I have known nothing but sorrow."

"The most celebrated woman in Ferelden-" he began angrily.

"-has _nothing_," she cut in bitterly. "I lost everything the night your father attacked Highever. _Everything. _The only reason I live today is because a Grey Warden took pity on me. And since then all I've known is sacrifice and pain and loss." She hissed. "Take my life if it pleases you, I've no use for it any longer. Perhaps you'll find more peace with my death than I found with your fathers."

"I despise you." he seethed

"You are not the first, but you could be the last." She nodded towards his hand. "Just one cut and it could be over."

He moved towards her so quickly she flinched. He pulled her to her feet and slammed her back against the wall, fisting his hand into her robe and pulling her face inches from his. "Fight me," he growled.

"No," she returned, staring at his mouth, watching it twist in anger.

She felt the tip of the blade pierce her robe, felt the cold steel rest against her breastbone. She looked up locked her eyes with his, cold and grey. She maintained a veneer of calm, truly, doing so was effortless. She should have died when the archdemon did, would have if that beautiful, brave fool Alistair not seen fit to sacrifice himself.

She was living on time she had never wished to borrow.

He lowered his face closer to hers; close enough for his long, distinctly Howe nose to brush hers. Gripping her by her shoulder he slammed her against the wall again. "Fight me," he demanded again, his voice like gravel.

She tipped her face up, running the edge of her nose against his. She could feel the whisper of his breath on her skin and closed the distance between them further, stopping only when her lips were a hairs breadth from his, "No."

He shifted, she felt the sting of the blade passing through her skin, felt the answering warm trickle of blood between her breasts, and the lightest pressure of his lips against hers. Her entire body shivered and her composure cracked for a brief second. She was not the only one affected. Something in his expression and in his stance changed, his posture becoming less hostile but somehow more dangerous.

The pressure of the blade lifted and she heard the hiss of fabric being cut. Cold air ghosted across her skin, her flesh pebbling in answer, her breath shallow. "Fight me," he demanded again, his voice low and rough.

Her only response was to lean forward the fraction of an inch to slide her mouth across his. He did not draw away, but neither did he encourage more contact, instead he stilled at the touch. She parted her lips and pressed them more firmly against his, allowing her tongue to trace the shape of his mouth.

She felt her robe being pushed aside, but did not release the contact between their mouths. His calloused fingers brushed against her flesh lightly, thumb grazing her nipple over and over until it was hard and aching, only to be pinched painfully between his thumb and forefinger, bringing forth a pained gasp from her.

She felt his answering grin against her lips and he gripped her breast, twisting and bruising her with his large hand before returning those calloused fingers to pinch her nipple until she whimpered. She tried to twist away but he slipped a leg between hers and locked their hips together, pinning her against the wall.

The dagger made quick work of her clothing, robe split from neck to hem; he pulled the two halves behind her shoulders, locking her arms at her sides with the sleeves. He leaned forward then, pressing the entire length of his body against hers. His armor was rough against the skin of her chest, but despite the heavy leather she could feel his cock, hard and thick against her belly.

He placed his fingertips against the base of her neck, eyes focused intently on that bit of skin. His fingers slid downward, light and feathery, until she felt a sudden sting, and realized he was running them over cut he'd made with the dagger. He raised his hand; two fingers coated in her blood, and touched them to her lips. Her tongue darted out to taste it, coppery and tainted.

He lowered his mouth to hers, insistent this time, suckling her bottom lip between his and laving the blood off with his tongue. She moaned; the sound was wanton, desperate and full of need. He pulled back, scowling at her.

"You want this," he growled, more statement than question.

"Yes," she answered.

He tilted his head, studying her. "You're playing the whore," he said, "You think this will convince me to spare your life."

"I don't care if you do," she answered honestly. "I want this."

"Why?"

_I have been empty inside since the archdemon fell, since Alistair made his foolish choice I have felt..._

"I have felt nothing for so long, too long, and yet you _terrify _me," she responded.

His eyes were half lidded, his expression sheltered. He bowed down; pressing his mouth against her chest, the sting of his tongue against her wound was strangely pleasurable. She felt the pressure of his hand sliding down her belly, beneath her smalls, and bucked her hips against him when he slipped his fingers between her folds.

He raised himself, his eyes hard and steely with anger, lips stained with her blood. "You're soaked," he growled at her, "are you so desperate for my cock, whore?" One of his long, blunt fingers slid easily inside of her, she could feel her walls attempting to grip him, but it was not near enough to satisfy.

_More, _she thought, shuddering. "Yes," she breathed.

A second finger joined the first, he was watching her intently, his expression angry and curious at once. She arched against his hand, her body begging for more, her lips parted with want. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she was no better than a whore, but the pleasure and pain and fear of this man made her feel _alive_. His thumb brushed across her swollen clit and her body clenched against his hand, a whine catching in her throat. His lips met hers again, firm, smooth and slick with her blood, she opened her mouth and allowed him to plunder hers with his tongue.

His fingers in her curled and prodded, finding the spots which made her body tighten and flex and writhe, his thumb occasionally brushing against the nub of her clit teasingly, forcing more of those wanton, desperate sounds from her throat. His lips brushed against her ear, "Is this how you convinced Maric's bastard to take the final blow for you? Did you play the whore for him, too?"

She stiffened; his fingers were no longer a pleasure, but an invasion, his large, rangy body no longer an anchor but a trap. She twisted, trying to pull away, but had no room to maneuver. His eyes narrowed with amusement at her struggle. She allowed the rage she felt to surface, whipping her head forward until her forehead slammed against his mouth, splitting his lip.

"You have no right to speak of him!" she hissed.

He turned his head to spit the blood from his mouth. "So you do have a weakness, _Commander. _I find it hard to imagine Bryce Cousland's daughter spreading herself for a bastard, royal or not."

"Alistair was the most honorable man I have ever known, you are unfit to even speak his name."

He pinched her clit cruelly, she gasped in pain, "And yet you're wet and eager for me. Do I remind you of him, then?"

"You could never hope to compare to him, _Howe_."

"Your body disagrees," he mocked and slipped his thumb over her clit as if to prove a point. Again, her hips bucked, pressing her against his hand. An answering grin crawled over his features, his lip splitting further, a trail of crimson trailing down his chin. She raised herself as much as possible and sucked his lip into her mouth, the taint in his blood less evident than it had been in hers. She licked at his lip, tonguing where it had split open, reveling in it.

He jerked back with a snarl and pulled her from the wall, leading her over to the heavy oak desk. Gripping her he bent her over, her face slamming against the wood, and twisted her arms behind her back, pinning her there.

It was pretense only that she would fight him, that he had to restrain her. He knew it as well as she did, he must, but she was grateful for it. It would not do to cling to him, to urge him on with her hands and mouth. No, this is what she wanted, the act of rape, even if it was only an act. _Yes_, she thought to herself, _let him excise his demons out on my body, let him take what he wants as long as he gives me what I need._

And give, he did.

She felt his broad cockhead pressing at her entrance, spreading her open, slipping easily through her slick. He did not enter her slowly, he did not take time to prepare her or give himself time to savor, but thrust forward sharply. She cried out at the sudden intrusion, the sting of her body stretching to accommodate his girth, the overwhelming fullness she had gone too long without. He pulled back to thrust forward just as brutally, setting a savage rhythm.

She could hardly draw breath between the force of his thrusts and the strength of his arms holding her in place. Part of her wished she was on her back, so she could see the feral line of his features, the twist of his mouth and those cold grey eyes. But part of her thought nothing could be more perfect than this, him taking from her, caring nothing for her wants or her comfort.

His knee came in contact with hers, forcing her to open wider, she complied, her back arching, thrusting her rear towards him as her body chased a peak it could not quite reach. Deeper and harder he went, hitting her womb with such force she could not tell if it was pleasure or pain, the slap of his heavy sack against her outer lips causing her to whine with need. She could hear nothing save his grunts, his labored breathing, and his voice as he belittled her.

"Highever whore," he ground out between thrusts. One of his hands reached beneath them, fingers wet with her brushing against her clit, causing her body to buck and struggle and seek out more contact. He laughed at her, "Cousland cunt," he growled, "How full of shame would your parents be to know that you are desperate for Howe cock."

She did not respond though she had an answer. They would be horrified that their daughter would so willingly submit to their murderer's son, would submit to this degradation at his hands. But they were dead, everything she loved was dead and gone, and Howe was making her _feel _again. His agile fingers plucked and pinched and tormented her clit, bringing her to the edge and pulling her back repeatedly. Too much and not enough all at once.

"Please," she whined.

He laughed behind her, the sound deep and cruel, "Beg for me then, Cousland whore." He released his grip on her arms though she did not move to brace herself or move away. Digging his fingers cruelly into her hips he increased his pace, slamming home with such force the heavy desk screeched across the floorboards. She could feel it, so close and moving closer and closer with each savage thrust, finally crying out as her body shattered into a thousand pieces under him.

He leaned forward, body covering hers as his teeth bit painfully into the skin between neck and shoulder, her flesh muffling the sound of his answering roar. Still inside her she could feel each twitch of his cock, each jet of seed filling her.

He lay over her, releasing his painful grip on her skin and breathing heavily. The leather of his armor sliding across her sweat slick skin with each inhale. He softened inside her, slipping free after a few minutes, and she felt the answering drip of his seed running down her thighs. She did not move immediately when he righted himself, though he no longer held her down, or even touched her.

When she did right herself he was tucking himself back into his breeches and watching her closely, his expression guarded.

"Will you kill me now?" she asked, not moving to cover her nudity with the ruined robe.

"No," he said, his voice sounded tired. Indeed, he appeared every bit as exhausted as she felt.

"Will you stay with the wardens?" she asked, almost fearing his answer.

"For now," he responded noncommittally.

She nodded once.

"Will you have me again?" She pressed, curious.

"Yes," he said; his voice once again a growl.

She nodded one more_._

As silently as he had entered he let himself out, not taking his eyes from her until the door clicked shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

He always came to her in the dead of night, when the keep was quiet and prying eyes were locked behind bedchamber doors. What happened between them was private. He never touched her when others were around; they made no assignations in darkened corners of the keep. Outside of their evenings he deferred to her as his commander, his demeanor cool, detached and professional, for the most part. But when he came to her in the night he became the predator again, beautiful and dangerous.

He would never undress fully, though on occasion he had removed his shirt, displaying his sleek form, a patch of silky hair on his chest leading to a narrow trail beneath his trousers. That bit of hair tempted her fingers, caused them to itch and twitch and want to touch him, but she rarely did. Scars, much like those she herself wore, laced his form, and only served to enhance his dark beauty.

His breeches would stay in place, unlacing them only when he took her, not before. He asked nothing of her mouth outside of the occasional brutal kiss, more teeth than tongue. In return she rarely touched him at all, which he seemed to prefer. He marked her someway, each and every time. His hands, his teeth, and the heavy leather belt which often came into play. Indeed, more often than not she was bound and unable to reciprocate, which pleased her well enough.

He enjoyed teasing her, tormenting her, making her nearly beg for it. She never did, not once, though she'd wanted to. He must have known when she did, as he always stopped just before her breaking point, when her body shook with need and she was biting her lips to keep her pleads at bay. He would give in then and sate those needs, both his and hers, in his perfect, brutal way.

Other times he would mock her relentlessly. Taunting her willingness to spread herself open to him, to allow him to debase her, own her, use her. The worthless son of the man murdered her family and destroyed everything she cared about. He enjoyed that, reminding her who he was, though at times she wondered if he was instead reminding himself. Once she'd looked up to see such regret in his eyes that she'd stilled, frozen, unable to move or breathe or do anything other than fight the urge to reach out to him. She didn't, of course.

She'd always been a coward at heart.

"Did your bastard take you here?" he asked one evening, slipping his wet fingers over the pucker of her ass.

"You dare to speak of him?" she hissed, pulling fruitlessly at the belt which bound her wrists to the headboard.

"I don't believe he did," he said, ignoring her words. "I don't believe anyone has had you here," he continued, increasing the pressure of his finger until slipping inside her.

The sudden jerk of her body gave her away and he laughed down at her, his face wearing its familiar sneer. "Good," he said, a satisfied note in his deep voice, "it's something I can claim as my own." Despite the cruelty in his laugh he was gentle as he massaged and teased her. It was but moments before she felt a surge of liquid heat to her core.

The pressure increased as he attempted to stretch her. She could feel her face flush and turned her face to hide her shame in the pillow. It was shameful, the pleasure she was getting from this. Not just his touch, which igniting an unexpected desire in her. No, it was more than that. His gaze on her was nothing sort of covetous, and his words played back over and over again in her head.

_It's something I can claim as my own._

_This,_ she thought for the hundredth time, _is a dangerous man._

He brought her back to the present when he slipped a second finger beside the first. She winced, and for a heartbeat his expression flickered with concern. That split second he was looking at her, Elissa, not the Cousland whore, not his father's killer or the Hero of Ferelden or any such nonsense; in that moment he didn't want to hurt her or shame her or bury his pain inside her.

She felt the sting of tears in her eyes at the unwanted display of tenderness, and he, void take him, immediately ceased his movements. She felt his fingers drawing away, which only made it worse. She didn't want any sort of consideration from him. Anything but that.

She shook her head once, eyes locked on his, silently pleading. He seemed to consider for a moment before allowing his sadistic mask to fall into place. A cruel twist of his lips, a flash of white teeth, he sneered, "There are whores in Antiva who prefer this sort of coupling, but I've never heard of a decent woman wanting it."

He continued to ready her, his movements perhaps more gentle than before. The feeling was ... Maker... it was so _intimate,_ alien and far more pleasant than it should be. His lips brushed her ear as he continued with his ministrations, whispering in his familiar tone, purring in her ear, "But _you_ want it, don't you?"

She shook her head in denial, even though they both knew it wasn't true. He slipped his other hand between her thighs and felt evidence of her deception and laughed. "So wet," he murmured, "your body does not lie. You crave it, my Highever whore."

Without preface he spread her thighs and entered her cunt in one swift thrust, wringing a moan from her. "Wet and hot and ready for me, as always," he whispered harshly against her ear, "I wonder what the others would think if they knew how eagerly you spread yourself for me."

His hand returned to its sweet torture, slick finger sliding over her ass teasingly. He pressed forward and slipped easily inside, "Already your body is readying itself for me," he said, pushing a second finger beside the first. She bucked at the sense of fullness between cock and fingers. He did not fuck her, but remained still beside his fingers, and she could scarcely move for the intensity of the feeling he had awakened in her. The need he had instilled in her for something not a few minutes ago she hardly would have considered.

He continued his achingly gentle preparation of her. It proved too much, and before long she was fighting the urge to begin rocking back against him, desperately needing more than what he was giving her. A needy whine of desperation built in her throat again and she allowed it to manifest.

"You're ready," he stated. _Asked?_ She could not tell, and it did not matter. She gave a small nod, which must have been what he was looking for and he withdrew from her completely, arranging her on her side and settling himself behind her. She felt the damp head of his cock against her ass, the pressure of it far more pleasant than his fingers had been. He did not press forward, not immediately, but simply continued to stroke his and slip the blunt head across her. It was not long before she was pressing back against him, seeking more.

"That's it," he said softly, his voice encouraging. One of his hands gently stroked her lower back; the other holding himself steady and he began to press forward.

He was too patient for her, too gentle, it was not the way things were between them. It was not the way things should be between them. She ground herself backwards, gasping when just the tip of him pierced her; too quickly she realized her error as pain began to spread. Involuntarily she tried to pull away, to get away from the intense discomfort, but he held her still.

"Don't move," he growled at her.

She stilled immediately at his command.

He slowly released the hold on her, hand once more stroking her back, encouraging her to relax. "Be still," he said, softly this time, "just breathe."

A minute or more must have passed with nothing but the sounds of their breaths before the pain began to fade. How he sensed it she didn't know, but once again he spoke words of encouragement. Another moment and he began to press again, she remained still, tried to force herself to relax. As he inched forward another wave of pain, less intense than the first. She tensed and he stilled immediately. She felt his forehead against the back of her neck, the warmth of his mouth pressing against her shoulder as he waited with a patience she did not know he possessed.

Her body began to accept him again, and once more he pressed forward. Suddenly, something inside her let go. It was unlike anything she'd felt before, but it was as though her entire body sighed and welcomed him.

"Yes," he whispered, breath ghosting across the skin of her back, "that's it." _Was that relief she heard?_

With little resistance he continued to penetrate her, slowly and steadily. Her breath passed her lips in an audible hiss as he finally seated himself fully within her. It was a foreign fullness, strange, but not unwelcome. It left behind it feelings just as foreign. She felt connected to him in a way she never had before, to anyone before. She was completely and utterly at his mercy at this moment. Any effort to struggle would only end in pain for her, she could only submit.

Yet she had no fear of it. He would not hurt her. Never more than she could handle, never more than she could _want_.

This... all of this, she realized, was more than it had seemed. A test of sorts. Maker help her, she trusted him, completely and thoroughly. And there was no possible way he could not know it.

"Mine," his breath ghosted across her ear on a whisper.

_Yes,_ said a traitorous inner voice, though she held her tongue.

"Mine," he said more forcefully, practically growling the word as if to prove a point. The deep rasp sent a shudder through her. Her nipples tightened painfully, gooseflesh broke out on her skin, and her body inadvertently clenched around him. The hand stroking her back stilled, the other tightened on her hip, and a ragged and unexpected moan escaped him. The sound was unlike any other she'd heard him make in their time together. He was normally quiet save for his words and the occasional grunt with his release.

Cautiously she rocked back against him and was rewarded when another low sound of utter pleasure passed his lips. She closed her eyes and savored it. She could not help it, traitor that she was.

"You'll be the death of me," he ground out.

And then he began to move.

She expected pain at first, but while there was some discomfort, there was nothing which could be defined as painful. As she began to relax further she found it was pleasant, even pleasurable. Soon her body opened itself to him fully and he was able to fluidly slide himself in and out until both of them were panting.

Before long she was pulling at her bindings, not to get away, but to reposition herself, align herself more perfectly with him so he could go deeper, take more. He must have noticed, for his hands immediately reached for them, fumbling for a moment as he did so. The second she was free she arched her back, parted her legs and pressed back against him as her hands were fisting themselves into the bed linens. The hand which had been stroking her back slid across her ribs, down her stomach, his talented fingers seeking her clit, where he immediately set to work, circling it slowly.

At his touch she clenched around him yet again, bucking backwards hard enough to force another ragged moan from his throat. His speed increased, and as he toyed with her overly sensitive clit she continued to grind back against him, harder and faster, urging him on. He complied, both with his hips and his fingers, where they worried her clit near frantically. It did not take long.

She screamed as she felt the walls of her cunt grasping for him, and finding nothing continued to grasp, harder and tighter, elongating each wave of pleasure that washed over her. She clenched around his cock, hard enough for it almost to be painful for her. Hard enough for him to cry out a curse followed by a stream of praise. She gasped for breath as the final wave crested

"_Fuck_... ," his voice was ragged, "Maker help me," he groaned, "I won't last."

He thrust forward harder, more savagely than before. She, sated and limp, her orgasm still ghosting across her, did not mind. Indeed, the absolute need she could feel coming from him, the slight loss of his otherwise strict control, was near intoxicating.

As he came inside her she was surprised yet again. She could feel more distinctly than ever his cock twitching and jerking as he pumped his seed inside of her. It was as though every pulse was magnified a hundred times so sensitive was the area. And in feeling it, knowing he was spilling himself inside her, knowing he was undone, was enough to reawaken her own want.

Never had she sought out her own release with him. No, she only took what he had allowed her, which was usually enough. But she could not seem to help herself as she reached between her legs and touched herself. And that was all it took, a single touch, so close she had been. With a jerk and a strangled cry she came again, clenching around him just as hard the first time, milking the last of the seed from his cock.

His shout was unexpected, less so his moan, but least of all the whisper which followed,_ "Elissa..."_

They lay together for several minutes, their breath slowly evening out. He slipped from her, but did not leave the bed. Instead his arm came to rest around her waist, pulling her tightly against him, burying his face in the back of her neck. He held her like that for several minutes while she, wanting nothing more but to relax against him instead stayed tense, wary. His lips pressed against her shoulder blades, his hands, large and calloused stroked her, held her as though she was made of glass. She remained still, unable to give in.

At length he sighed and turned away. She felt the mattress move as he stood and immediately regretted the loss of those strong arms pulling her against his warmth, cold and alone once more. He walked towards the nearby basin, returning with a damp cloth she used to cleanse herself, as he did the same with another. She did not thank him, or even meet his eye, and handed him back the cloth without saying a word.

He stared down at her, those steely eyes unreadable in the low light. She looked away, but he remained as he was. Searching for something, perhaps? She burrowed her face against the pillow, hiding from him. Eventually she heard his footsteps, but they moved in the wrong direction, headed towards her, not away. She tensed again, but made no move.

She felt the brush of his lips on her forehead before he turned and left.

Her heart clenched in fear.


	3. Chapter 3

She left him behind.

For days she'd been dodging his footsteps and hiding from his gaze. Something had changed between them since the last night he came to her. Whatever it was that tied them together had become... more. More than she wanted, more than she deserved, and certainly more than belonged between them.

And so she'd left with Oghren and Anders, running off to the countryside on the pretense of investigating darkspawn sightings. She knew she couldn't stay away forever, knew she'd have to confront him eventually, she simply wasn't prepared for it. She'd come to want... no, need, those times they'd come to share together. The punishment and the pleasure, and simply letting go of everything else. She needed him despite knowing she could ill afford to need anyone, and wanted him despite knowing how quickly it could all be torn away.

She did not know why she was surprised to find him waiting for her upon her return.

The moment she entered her room she saw his lanky frame stretched out in the chair before the fire, making the space seem far smaller than it was. The door clicked behind her and she leaned against it, unable to step into the ring of light created by the fire. He turned his head towards her and they stared silently at one another for several seconds before she finally spoke.

"What are you doing here?"

"You never questioned my presence before," he said, rising to face her.

_This is different, and you know it,_ she thought to herself, though she did not say as much. She hoped that her time away would have prepared her for this, but it hadn't.

When she didn't answer he spoke once more, his voice curiously soft, "Why did you flee?"

"I didn't flee," she bit out, shamed by how easily the lie came to her lips.

"Call it what you will, be both know why you left," though his words held an accusation there was none in his tone.

He neared her slowly, his long large frame blocking out the light behind him. The wood of the door was cold and solid behind her back, giving her no room to retreat. He reached out a hand, ghosting his fingers across the line of her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip. His eyes were focused on her mouth, only flicking upwards to meet her eyes momentarily before lowering to her lips once more, clearly demonstrating his intent.

"Howe," she warned, placing a hand against his chest.

"It's Nathaniel," he said with a sigh, dropping his hand and taking a step back. "I came to tell you that I cannot do this any longer, not as it stands."

She should have felt some relief at this statement, this was for the best, after all, but found herself instead asking,"Why?"

He was quiet a moment, as though considering his words. "I've long stopped blaming you for my father's fate, yet I was angry still. Angry at him, at Lohgain, at the bloody war and the darkspawn; but not you. Despite that, and to my shame, I continued to take it out on you."

His voice dripped with regret, and without thought she move to assuage it, "You knew what I wanted," she admitted. He had not forced his anger on her. She'd welcomed it in fact, practically demanded it from him at times. Needed it.

"Yes," his eyes bore into hers, "I know... but... For too long I could only see you as the woman who stole from me any chance I would ever have to prove to my father I was worthy of the name Howe." His brow creased, rugged features twisting in remorse in the low light. She could tell that this was difficult for him, though difficulty did not dissuade him from continuing. "For too long I refused to admit that my father became a man whose admiration I could never want. He destroyed the name I could never live up to," he said bitterly."Were I a better man I would have stopped this long ago."

"Don't," she said sharply, unwilling to allow him to continue. He_ was_ a better man. A better than she was comfortable admitting. "You did nothing I did not welcome."

He inclined his head acknowledging her words, "Be that as it may, I find it's a part I can play no longer."

It was her turn to sigh as it dawned on her just how cruel her own behavior had been, intentional or not. "I've not allowed you to be yourself," she admitted reluctantly.

"No, you haven't."

She glanced up at him, "I'm ... It was not my intention."

He nodded once, "It was no great difficulty. I have always been ... reserved with others, and I've certainly enjoyed aspects of our... relations," he admitted. "But now that I've come to know you... it changes things."

"You think you know me?" she asked. He didn't. He only knew the wreckage she'd become.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation. "And though I've not wanted such a thing for some time, I'd like for you to know me in return."

Her breath left her at the vulnerability she suddenly saw before her. She'd shown him she trusted him, and now he was showing her the same. Words failed to form in throat and she felt her mouth pulling into a frown. He dropped his gaze from hers and turned, taking her silence for her rejection.

Before she could fully contemplate her next action, she reached out, grabbing his arm and turning him back. She'd only intended to stop him from leaving, to give herself a moment to think. She was not granted that moment. He swiftly moved into her space again, inches away, filling her senses. Once again his hand reached out to touch her jaw as he tilted his head and lowered his mouth to meet hers.

His lips were smooth, warm and firm. He had never kissed her like this, gently, tentatively, as though he didn't want to frighten her off. It only made sense though. She had rejected every kindness he'd offered over the past months, coldly so. And yet here he was now, nuzzling his lips against hers seductively.

He pulled back from her mouth, resting his forehead against hers, his long, elegant nose brushing hers. His lips parted, his voice broke when he whispered against her lips, "Elissa, please."

Maker help her, how could she not?

She tentatively touched her mouth to his, softly urging him on. He sighed against her, his hand came to thread itself through her hair, tipping her head back, taking ever so slightly more. She wanted to sink against him. She did sink against him. She hadn't been kissed like this in so long. Not since…

She stiffened, pulling her mouth from his she ducked her head, placing both hands against his chest she pushed. "Howe," she warned again.

He released her but didn't move, still towering over her, she felt his lips against her ear, "Nathaniel," he corrected, sighing once more. He did not move to kiss her nor touch her, he simply remained as he was, caging her between the cold wood and his warmth, like an embrace, not yet given but waiting to be taken.

"Neither of us can go back. But we can go forward and... I'd very much like to do so. With you."

She looked away, the sincerity in his gaze too much to bear. "You think you know me Howe, but you do not. You do not understand what I lost."

"Your home? Your family," he answered, "I have lost them as well."

It was true, he had. And though he might live within the halls of his childhood home, it was his no longer.

"I lost more than that," she responded quietly, pushing past him and moving into the room.

He followed her, "I know you loved him, and I do not seek to take his place."

"His place?" She growled, "He gave up his place when he died in mine!"

"So that you could live," he said, softly, gently, as one would speak to a skittish horse, slowly edging forward. His hands, warm and large, grasped her arms and turned her towards him. "So live," he said softly, cupping her face, wiping her tears away with his thumb. "Don't allow his sacrifice to go in vain."

Her voice shook, "I... can't."

"You can, you must. You deserve so much more."

No, not her. Alistair, he was the one who deserved more. He deserved so much more.

"He deserved more," she said, for once speaking her thoughts.

He was silent for a moment, "I do not doubt that. That he could win your heart speaks well for his character."

She glanced down when he took her hand in his. His hands were familiar, she could have drawn a map of the callouses there, but this sort of touch was new. His thumb brushed against her knuckles and his deep voice, lowered to a near whisper brought her attention back up to him.

"Could you..." he began, seemingly at a loss for words. He dropped his gaze and gathered his thoughts before continuing. "I've come to care for you. I know that you... I don't expect..." He stopped again, struggling for words before glancing up to meet her eyes. "I simply want you to let me care."

The vulnerability she saw there wrenched something in her. The words, her confession came to her in a rush, "I should never have conscripted you." For a second there was a flash of something in his eyes and she immediately moved to explain, "I should have allowed you to take whatever you wanted from the keep and let you leave with your life, but I didn't. I punished you for another's sins. I should have let you go."

He seemed to consider this a moment, "I was angry at the time , I admit. But in the end, your choice was for the best. I had lost everything and I needed to start over. You gave me a place to start. I would like to put the pieces of myself back together, and I think perhaps you could do with someone to help you do the same."

That he would accept it so easily, to even see it as a boon... did she deserve this? Perhaps not but...looking up at him, the feral line of his features tamed by earnestness and a spark of hope shining within the steel of his eyes. She might not deserve it, but he certainly did.

"I cannot make any promises, but, I think that I would like to try," she said softly.

His hands returned to her, and then his lips, soft and tender and hopeful, and for once she gave herself over to it fully.

Perhaps in time, she would come to deserve this as well.

**A/N: Yes, yes - it took me forever to finish this. I apologize to those few people actually following along. Originally I had some sex written into this chapter… but I removed it and rewrote the entire thing (multiple times), which took me some time... and time is something in short supply lately! The first two chapters are basically a smutfest, and I wanted to instead focus on the emotion for the final part, so, no sex, sorry! I would like to say, I love Nathaniel Howe, I wish he had made it into DA2 as the writers originally planned. I know he's not a very popular character, but I also know a few of you out there love him just as much as I do. So thank you (to the very very small number of) Nate fans for tagging along, I hope you enjoyed this. Let me know, will you?**


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